17 small poems and a Happiness Poem in 18 parts

lonely cricket deep into the night

heavy shopping bags

i cannot straighten myself

long walk home 

4 a.m. with sweet potatoes on my mind

this old house

rain-creaky

sweet potatoes in the oven

red gloves give me strength     walking into the wind

halfway up the stairs

now is the time for

tangerine kisses

late october

the wildness of leaves

a shy black cat

we stop to admire the mums

years ago 

we knew each other well

up to his ankles in raked leaves

the young monk 

takes time to smile

your hands in mine

still warm

from when you cupped a cup

post-election day walk

campaign signs droop

with exhaustion

damp grey morning

the birds and i turn over

and go back to sleep

morning walk

wandering mind

a clump of snow lands on my head —

wake up!

melancholy

until 

the sun

the old brown jug

yellow and red blooms

no longer jaunty

flitting from book to book

unsettled mind

where are you Sister Crow?

street corner garden

tucked in with the frozen kale

5 bagels

Late November Happiness Poem

happiness is when you wake at 3 in the morning and can't fall back to sleep but it doesn't matter because you're okay just lying there counting from 1 to 100 and back down from 100 to 1 and most times before you even get up to 100 you are already sleeping again

happiness is when you wake from a nightmare and feel the great relief of realizing it was all a dream and none of those horrible things ever happened to you and you can tell yourself "don't think about that" and so you don't

happiness is sinking low into the lavender-scented water, knowing you can remain as long as you want — an hour or even more — and when the bath gets cold you can turn on the faucet and add hot water, you can even turn the faucet on with your foot and not have to sit up

happiness is when you're moping around your apartment on a cold wet Sunday afternoon bemoaning the fact that the only time the phone rings these days is when someone (usually just a recorded voice) is trying to get you to buy something you don't want and so you're startled when the phone actually rings in the middle of these morose thoughts and it turns out to be a dear friend who wants to have a real conversation and you both laugh and talk for almost an hour

happiness is when you re-arrange your closet and realize that for the first time in your adult life you have more clothes in colors (plum, lavender, teal, turquoise, emerald green) and less clothes in black and you are so inspired by this that you decide to get rid of some of your socks even though a week ago you felt you couldn't part with a single pair but now that you are no longer committed exclusively to black you sort through the sock drawer and toss out 5 pairs of black socks you've had for about 20 years

happiness is when you call Time Warner Cable customer service first thing in the morning and in less than 2 minutes you are connected with a real person named Eric (though it could be Erik or even Erich) and you explain your problem clearly and he understands immediately and tells you to press one button and then another button and you do these things and see that your problem is solved and you say Hurrah and Eric (a very young man) says "excuse me?" and you say it again — Hurrah — and then you thank him over and over because now you can watch DVDs later in the day

happiness is when you go outside to sweep away the first gentle snowfall of the season and when you say hello to a stranger walking by he tells you this is his first snow in 26 years because right after graduating from Ithaca High School in 1988 he moved to Atlanta and today is his first day back in Ithaca

happiness is when you are out for an early morning walk and the sun is so bright in your eyes that you can't see a thing and it's a surprise when a person passes you and all you know about that other human being is that he or she smells good

happiness is having friends who give you scarves for every occasion and for no occasion and when winter rolls around again you open your special wooden box and there are all your scarves neatly folded and ready for wear and you can choose a new one each day depending on your mood — is it a purple day? (it usually is and you have many purple choices) — but you can also go with wild patterns of orange and magenta

happiness is when you are walking around your beautiful neighborhood deeply engrossed in your thoughts and you end up walking right past your house and its not until you have gone on like this for a few minutes that you suddenly stop and ask yourself "where am I?" and you look around and laugh and turn and go back in the direction that will take you home

happiness is when you want to write a letter to a friend and you discover that you have exactly the right card to send and even a good picture to enclose (not a picture of yourself! a picture of a woman reading a book) and on top of all these wonderful things you also have an excellent pen to use and you can tell it is not going to run out of ink anytime soon 

happiness is when you remember something your father said more than 50 years ago in a Bronx deli as you were schmearing mustard on your hot dog and it had something to do with you being like Picasso with that mustard and you're not sure if it was meant as a compliment or not but you choose to remember it fondly 

happiness is when you open a book you abandoned long ago and discover a postcard you were using as a bookmark — 13 cakes painted by Wayne Thiebaud in 1963 (a good year for you in some ways) — and this is the message written on the back of the card:
"3/8/13
My Dear,
I would be delighted to join you for lunch April 1st, New Delhi Diamond's Cheers, Nan."
Don't you agree that is a great big happiness? 

(Hello to you dear Nan Bell)

happiness is when you wonder if a small poem will find you on this day so you open a haiku journal for inspiration and your eyes come across the words "peace of mind" and right away you feel calmer and you take a deep breath and then another and realize you are no longer anxious about a poem — knowing it will come or it won't come — and you put on your good walking shoes and head out the front door
(Thank you dear Tom Clausen)

happiness is when you bring 8 books to Autumn Leaves Used Books to trade for store credit and after a quick look around you find a book you want — "The Rarest of the Rare: Vanishing Animals, Timeless Worlds" by Diane Ackerman — and even though you think it is possible that you already read this book when it was first published almost 20 years ago you gladly take it home because you remember nothing about the short-tailed albatrosses or the golden lion tamarins — and you still have lots more store credit for a future visit

happiness is taking yourself out for lunch at New Delhi Diamond's Restaurant for their amazing Saturday buffet that includes Bhindi Masala (okra and peppers and onions) and you are very pleased with yourself: no rice or potato puffs or soft golden pillows of fried dough and you leave feeling both full and healthy

happiness is discovering a new shop called Bramble that recently opened in Press Bay Alley (around the corner from Diamond's) — a collective of local herbalists — the warm welcoming delightful atmosphere envelops you the second you walk in the door and you come home with a coconut/lavender cream called "Cloud Butter" and also with a small bottle of Dandelion Flower Essence to aid in your desire to Be More and Do Less — knowing that if you manage to do this you will make your sweetheart very happy
(Thank you dear Amanda David, herbalist and rootworker)

happiness is arriving back at your front door just as your sweetheart is pulling the car out of the driveway on her way to Wegmans to buy a few things that will go well with the veggie soup you made yesterday and she rolls down the window to tell you she loves you and you say the very same to her and then she drives off and you come inside to type up your happinesses for this day at 1:30 in the afternoon

small poems: late summer / early autumn

great blue heron early this morning our shadows cross

striking the brass bell

so many yesterdays 

begin this way

my reflection

in your eyes

before you blink

heart inside heart inside heart inside heart chalked sidewalk

everyone is talking about the moon

but tonight the moon is

talking to me

walking to the waterfall

and back

an hour without worry

heavy rain  you disappear  behind weeping willows

lately 

you hold my hand more tightly

I like it

each time we pass them

we call out

sunflowers sunflowers sunflowers

a volume of Issa's poems

open before me 

still my mind wanders

my sweetheart is flying west

I walk north and stop

to smell the roses

hibiscus tea

a long slow rain 

you wake up far from home

yesterday I couldn't find the teapot

but now

here it is

my sweetheart

two time zones away

is it too early to miss her?

let us begin again

you and I — dear moon 

the start of a new year

going for a walk later today maybe we will cross paths

green green green everywhere green

except over there . . .

a patch of red leaves

my new red beret 
some days i just want
to be a cardinal

here you are    beloved moon     now all is well

small poems: july 2014

your photograph

my memory

both fading

the way you used to play 

among the trees

solitary hide-and-seek

dawn

the cosmos

plans its day

my urban childhood

canned fruit

even in summer

spider's web

strung high between two tree limbs

everyday art

each morning

my front lawn

a "found art" gallery —

discarded bottles and cans

from night revelers

nearsighted moon

let's stay up all night reading

i'll lend you my glasses

from the other side of the fence

the moon calls

"here i am"

spider

next time I'll be more careful

before entering the shower

just now

a sultry song

on someone else's car radio / /

then the street light changes

from red to green

countless routes

my circlewalk always brings me

back home

my big sun hat

looks sillier on my shadow

than it does on me

after a hard rain

my neighbor's garden spills out

onto the sidewalk

cardinal

thank you for reminding me

to be surprised

who was I

before I was me?

I look at a painting of

a white swan

and wonder . . . .

weary —

2 blue jays fly across my path —

now I am awake

artist friend

in your open window

a bouquet of colored pencils

abandoned bench

longs for the feel of a 

soft tush —

moss is no substitute

an empty birdcage

floats down the creek —

in the nearby trees: nothing

Goddess of the East

your ruby necklace 

flung across the morning sky

I bow to you

brave little violet

in this moment

you and I

blurred vision

the morning seems

so much grayer

now in our 60s

we vow to wear 

less black

Some really small poems — one-liners, most of them written in the last couple of days:

since my last birthday bigger and noisier dreams 

pale gray faded ink time to toss your letter

heavy rain a bottle cap floats down the street

my hat flies off and takes me with it

so much happiness but no tail to wag

fighting my pillow through a long nightmare

waiting room anxiety fills the empty chair

listening for you so hard it hurts

precious objects I say adieu to you

another morning another crack in the ceiling

daydreaming about a garden I can daydream in

rain waits with me at the bus stop

muddy day happy day

late afternoon curled into a nap beside you

three times looking back no one is there

solitary day alone with the house plants

between thunder claps I count my ragged breaths

in another time zone my mother also washes her hair

hibiscus tea in a sunflower mug mixing it all up

spring cleaning foolishly discarding an old raincoat

steady rain i can't hear myself think

this cracked sidewalk keeping me on my toes

in your purple clogs you brighten this gray day

small poems: june 2014

two large men — bearded and bald —

stop to breathe in

peonies

heavy rain

I am not afraid

the leaky roof was repaired last week

from the other side of the country

my mother's laugh

finds me

a young girl

picks a bouquet 

of chocolate mint / /

muddy footprints

fill that small patch of garden

sister — do you remember —

each tentative step

from shore to sea

we wait for the ferry

a well-packed picnic basket

at our feet / /

one of us

thinks only of death

black and white photo

your yellow sundress

in my mind's eye

when we hug

your cheek bruises mine —

so much has changed this last year

leading me down the middle path

yellow butterfly

here you are again

my father and his cigars

still together

after all these years

crossing the wide avenue

mother

don't let go

first bunch of radishes

the veins on my hands

more pronounced

once I thought

all black birds

were the same / /

what will I laugh about

next year?

in my Brownie uniform

(and beanie)

how special I felt / /

we stuck cloves in apples

and called it Arts & Crafts

on my bookcase

a basket of seashells

coated in dust / /

years and miles from the ocean

make room

for African violets —

breathe slower

after ballet class

we stand in 1st position

my sister and I . . . .

that is all

we remember

fish tank

in our building's lobby —

mother says 

they're sleeping —

dad mouths the word 

dead

I bring chalk —

my friend has a bottle cap —

we play Potsie 'til the light fades

growing out of a crack

in a Bronx sidewalk 

the first dandelion / /

mother says

"it's like living in the country now"

if I walked through puddles

instead of around them

would we ever have met?

mid June

I spend the whole afternoon

drawing flowers

slow walk

through birdsong

my body is healing

broken sidewalk

I meant to take a different route —

absent-mindedness

viewing us 

from behind his camera

Grandpa never says "smile"

buried in the dream garden

you

and your broken old guitar

re-arranging my bedroom

Kwan Yin

is everywhere

beside the hall mirror

mother hangs a photograph

of herself

purple shawl across

an unmade bed —

so many yesterdays

the untuned piano

flowers dying in the vase

even the mail is late

scrabble tiles

photos of fake ancestors —

good day at the flea market

guarding the entrance

to our apartment building —

two carved lions

and the neighborhood bum

my father's lost record collection

still mourned

65 years later

before bed

polishing the whites of

our saddle shoes / /

my sister and I 

long for patent leather sling-backs

they called her the Cat Lady

she was kind to me 

my great-aunt Helen

next door:

a man and his fish tank

(and his lonely wife)

after a hard rain

goodbye

irises

new morning

stepping around

my same old fears

waking three times in the night

always the same

rainfall

walking into the morning fog to clear my head

surprise:

a perfect mushroom

at the bottom of the stairs

carelessly

you toss it into your straw hat —

my wildflower bouquet

two clouds

meet each other

for the first and only time

I waited all night

for you —

mauve breeze

we don't have a Special Thing, I whine, 

bemoaning our lack of daily ritual. 

Not having a Special Thing is our Thing, 

Blue says, 

wise owlwoman that she is. 

After a pause she adds, 

our Special Thing is loving each other 

every day

my dear little city

today the mourning doves

weep for you

creekside walk

I stop to watch a rabbit

breathe

pink rose

pushing through a spider's web — 

my neighbor's front porch

first night in a new city

hello

same old moon / /

home 

again

watering the coleus

butterfly

I went looking for you . . .

you found me

left at the side of the road

a 5-drawer dresser

so much emptiness